Reap it in the Family
by Pegasus
Summary: Another normal day. But...normal is as normal does, right? George tries to find something out about Mason, not necessarily very successfully - but learns something more valuable instead.


"**Reap it in the Family"**

**A 'Dead Like Me' Fanfiction**

**By Pegasus**

**DISCLAIMY-BIT**

_I do not own the copyright to these characters, neither do I intend to profit from this venture into the unknown. I do, however, claim the right to exist and to wear clashing colours if I so desire. And to eat vanilla ice cream when all around me people are eating mad flavours like 'banana fruitbat' or 'plank'._

_- - - - - - -_

_There's something fundamentally wrong about being forced to house share, even when you're dead. I mean, don't get me wrong. Daisy is OK – in her own way. But she never washes up, she never cooks and she always wants to talk about her. Me, me, me, it's all about me. All about what people think of her. How she looks, how she acts, what she does… _

_Even when I was alive I couldn't care less what people thought of me. 'I am what I am', or some such philosophical crap. Daisy's all about putting on a performance._

_Must be the actress in her._

"Georgia, are you even _listening_?"

"What?"

Daisy Adair rolled her eyes skywards theatrically and threw a cushion at her younger house mate. "I can't believe you at times, Georgia. You're such a smart girl, but you act so _stupid_."

George dodged the cushion with ease and scowled back at Daisy. "I was listening," she protested. 

_I just wasn't interested._

"Whatever." Daisy tossed her head peevishly, annoyed at the loss of George's attention. "We should be heading off to meet the others anyway. Rube said seven, didn't he?"

"Yep."

"Are you going to get ready?"

George looked down at her jeans and t-shirt clad self. Her long blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and as usual, she wore no make up. It was her day off work and she couldn't be bothered to expend effort.

She looked back at Daisy.

"I _am_ ready."

"Are you _sure_ you're a girl?"

George threw the cushion back at Daisy as she vanished around the corner. The comment had been typical Daisy: frivolous and throwaway, but with an underlying air of spite that hurt George's feelings on a basic level.

_What did **she** know? Of course I was sure I was a girl. I could dress up and prettify with the rest of them. Just because it took Daisy a week on average to get ready to go out, didn't mean we were all like her. I liked to think I was naturally pretty, whereas Daisy wore so much makeup that if she smiled too much, her face would shatter._

_Who was I kidding? SHE was naturally pretty, too._

_God, I hated her at times._

The two women made their way across town to Der Waffle Haus to meet with the rest of the External Influences Division. Uncharacteristically, they were the last to arrive. Rube, Roxy and Mason were already there; Rube giving serious contemplation to a plate of food, whilst Roxy and Mason argued vociferously across the table.

"Don't make me shoot you again, Mason."

"Oh, come on, Roxy, just one little tiny bit. Nobody will ever know." The young Brit's voice was as whining and pleading as ever it was and he was giving Roxy his best 'puppy dog eyes' expression. George dropped into the booth next to him and shoved him up to the end in order to make room for Daisy who primly sat down at the end.

"Mason, I am _not_ going to give you access to the confiscated drugs in the trunk of my car, you understand meMan, it's not like you even NEED access to any more, you're high as a kite most the time as it is."

Mason fell into a typical sulk and began to build a pillar out of the cruet.

"Morning ladies," said Rube through a mouthful of pancake. "You're late."

"Well, yeah," said George, quick as a flash. "We're all late. As in, the late Georgia Lass."

_Ha, see what I did there? Fear my razor-sharp intellect._

The other occupants of the table stared at her.

_OK, not funny._

"That's not even remotely funny, Peanut. Now shut up and listen. We've got a group assignment on tonight and we need to cram."

"What do you mean, 'cram'?"

The faintest quirk of a smile appeared on Rube's lips and he looked around the table. "We're going to a party. And we're all going as other people." He opened the book that customarily contained his post-it notes and took out four envelopes, each labelled with the name of one of the Reapers in his neat printed handwriting. 

"VIPRs?" Mason's eyes lit up and he knocked over the cruet that he had been building. Salt spilled out onto the table and in his inimitable fashion, Mason tried to feed it back through the tiny holes in the top.

"No, you, moron." Rube watched Mason in disgust. "Instructions. Your reaps are inside as well. Read, learn, practise." He looked at the girls. "Peanut, Roxy, Daisy – you get to go shopping for pretty dresses. Go crazy. Get something stylish. We're going to a party."

Daisy clapped her hands excitedly and took up the envelope eagerly.

"What about me?" Mason looked up from the salt.

"I don't think you'd suit a pretty dress, Mason," said Roxy, dryly. 

"I don't know," said Daisy, eyeing the scrawny man up critically. "I think with a bit of effort we could make Mason into a positive DOLL of a girl. Right, Georgia?"

_A doll?_ _Mason wouldn't even qualify as Ken._

"I don't want to be a girl. I'm a manly man. A bloke's bloke, that's me." He nudged his neighbour. "Stick up for me, Georgie." Mason had always had the ability to get George onto his side. Maybe it was just the fact that the puppy-dog eyes routine worked on her more effectively; Roxy and Daisy were far more experienced in dealing with men. 

_It was also, though don't ever quote me on this, because in the time that I've known Mason, his ineptitude and inability to do ANYTHING right has sort of endeared him to me. He's the only Reaper I'm better than. George is. Greater than Mason._

_You owe me, Mason. Several times over. One of these days I'm going to collect._

"What kind of party is it, Rube?" George asked the question lightly, seamlessly changing the subject and steering it away from the embarrassment that the topic had caused Mason. He flashed her a compatriotic grin.

Rube, who was still watching Mason's efforts to return the salt to its cellar with obvious distaste looked up and smiled at her. "It's a book launch," he said. "Up at the Grosvenor House."

"The Grosvenor House?" Roxy looked up, clearly impressed. "Wow, Rube, that's the most expensive place in town."

"Damn straight, Roxy. And that's why you've all got money to buy new clothes for it. Except you, Mason. You're coming with me. I'll take you shopping."

"I can shop for my own clothes, thank you very much. I happen to be very stylish."

On the utterance of this artful lie, George, Daisy and Roxy stared at him. He was presently wearing a hooded sweatshirt that looked (and smelled) like it had formerly lined a cat's litter tray, along with a pair of ripped combats that had not only seen better days, but had seen better decades.

"Nobody's questioning your sense of style, Mason." Rube ignored the fact that Daisy raised her hand at this point. "I'm simply questioning your ability to spend your money on something you can't smoke or take in tablet form." Rube raised one eyebrow. "Anyway, you have another reap to do this morning, here…" He slapped a post-it down in front of Mason who snatched it up sulkily. "I'll meet you later. In here, two o'clock. Sharp."

Mason looked at the small piece of yellow paper and then stuffed it in his pocket. He got up and clambered over George and Daisy without another word. They both protested vociferously at his behaviour, but he didn't comment.

_That silence was probably the first sign, thinking about it. Mason was going to have a Bad Day. Of course, he had a lot of bad days, but this one was going to be a Bad Day. Capital letters._

"Mason?" Rube called over to him as he began walking to the door. He turned back.

"Yeah?"

"Don't fuck up. And for God's sake, take a shower, will you?"

Mason flipped Rube the finger and disappeared out of Der Waffle Haus.

An awkward silence fell across the table. Rube set post-its down in front of Roxy and Daisy and resumed eating his breakfast. 

"Nothing for me?"George asked, airily.

"Nope, Peanut, you have the whole day off. Isn't that nice?"

"Well, I gotta get going – I have a trunk full of confiscated cannabis plants that need taking downtown," said Roxy, picking up her post-it. "I'll meet you ladies in the mall at one o'clock, huh?"

"Can you give me a ride to the hospital over on West and Main?" Daisy put her compact back into her handbag and also got up. 

"Daisy, that's only four blocks away! Can't you _walk_?"

"It's windy. It'll blow my hair out of place." Roxy rolled her eyes.

"Girl, you're somethin' else. Come on. See you later, George."

"Bye."

George settled back into the booth and looked up as Kiffany came across. "Can I get a coffee to go please, Kiffany?"

"Sure, honey." The waitress looked over at Rube who had finished his breakfast and gave him one of those rare smiles that she seemed to have only for him. "Food OK?"

"Kiffany, it was superb. A coffee top-up would be fantastic if you're getting one for my friend here. Thank you."

She disappeared to get the coffees and George studied Rube thoughtfully without saying a word. Things continued in this way for several minutes until Rube set down his pen, folded his hands in front of him, leaned forward and looked her square in the eye.

"You're not that good at keeping your thoughts to yourself normally, George," he said, refraining from using the 'Peanut' moniker that, despite how many times she asked him not to use it, he still insisted on labelling her with. "So what's the problem here?"

"I'm just curious," she replied, lightly, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. "What's the deal with you and Mason, really? Why are you always on his ass?"

"No deal. He's a fuck-up. It's my job to be on his ass."

"No, really." George leaned forward, unconsciously mirroring Rube's posture. "You never have a nice word to say to him. So, what's the deal?"

"Move past it, Georgia. If you're that bothered, then ask him yourself. " Rube settled back, picking up the crossword in a manner that very clearly said 'this conversation is over'.

The coffee arrived and Georgia dropped her money down on the table. "So no post-it for me?" Just to clarify. It wasn't all that unusual, but still…

"Not this morning, Peanut. You're off until tonight." Rube patted the envelope. "Read, digest. And buy something stunning. You're a pretty girl, Georgia, make something of yourself."

_What the hell is this, 'Make George Feel Inadequate day or something?_

"Whatever." She scooped up the envelope and pushed it into a pocket. "See you later."

"You're a good kid, George," said Rube, suddenly. "You've got a smart mouth on you, sure, but you're a good kid. Don't buy into Mason's brand of bullshit if you can help it. Just remember the cardinal rule. Mason. Is. A. Fuck-up. See you tonight."

_When I was a little kid, I skinned my knees a lot. All little kids do that. But I used to pick at the scab and make it bleed again. My mom hated it. "Don't poke at it, Georgia, it'll get better if you leave it alone." I couldn't understand how she didn't like it. It was a great feeling, seeing that fresh blood well up in the wound._

_So maybe it was weird and Mom always went on at me about it. I never listened then and there was no real reason why I should listen now._

_Rube was right. Mason __**was**__a fuck-up. I mean, drilling a hole in your own head sure isn't normal behaviour, not even with the best of intentions. But he was also my friend. And he had looked really unhappy that morning._

"Hey Georgie."

Mason was sitting on a park bench, one leg curled up underneath him, his eyes fixed on a point over at the far side of the park. Every so often, he would take a swig from a bottle of bourbon that he had in his pocket.

"Hey." She sat there in silence for a few minutes. "Done your reap yet?"

"Yep. Done and dusted. I even managed not to screw it up." He took another gulp of bourbon. Then, without even looking at her, he continued. "Why are you here? Rube send you check up on me?" He sounded uncharacteristically bitter. Something was clearly bothering him. 

"No, I just wanted to find you. See how you were."

"I'm fantastic, thank you. Haven't you got shopping to do?"

"Daisy and Roxy are meeting me at the mall this afternoon. Do you want to do something?"

He glanced sideways at her. "Do something?"

"I don't know. Go bowling. Feed the ducks. Something."

"Why?"

"I don't know." George grinned suddenly. "I just felt like spending time with you. We never hang out any more. You're the closest to me in age, well, OK, barring the fact that you're like, whatever, sixty eight and I'm not, but you know what I mean. Let's _do_ something."

There was a long silence and then Mason looked at her, a small smile on his face. "Do you know, Georgie-girl, I think I would like that. Today, anyway. It's my day, after all, right? How about you buy me breakfast? Rube wouldn't."

_And it clicked. Today was Mason's death day. No wonder he looked so miserable. So I made it my mission to put a smile on Mason's face before the end of the day._

_It occurred to me that I'd never really asked Mason about his life before he became a Reaper. Obviously I knew about the trepanation, but what had he been? What had he done, other than stick a masonry bit into his skull? How had he come to the States at all? I figured that maybe a bit of bonding was long overdue._

_Silly me._

_Turned out that these topics of conversation were scabs on Mason's past – and he didn't like the sensation of me picking at them._

The hospital on West and Main was a diagnostic specialist unit. This meant nothing to Daisy who had as much interest in hospitals as she did in civil engineering. It was full of handsome men in workmen's uniforms, though and that she _was_ interested in. She caught one by the arm. He turned and smiled at the pretty young woman who was standing before him.

"What's going on?" she asked, indicating the large truck that was backing up to the hospital service entrance.

"New MRI scanner being set up," came the reply. "That truck contains the magnet for the system. Excuse me, miss, there's a lot to do." 

"Thank you so much," she replied, and looked down at the post-it note. Her reap's name was apparently H. Cortez, and his – or her – ETD was 9.32am.

Her watch told her that it was presently only 9.00. Half an hour to kill – figuratively speaking, of course. In a _hospital_. Still, it had a cafeteria where she purchased herself a coffee and a decidedly tragic-looking muffin. Taking her purchases to a table, she sat and watched the hustle and bustle of the hospital. She'd never liked hospitals, even back in her heyday. They were full of _sick_ people for a start, and that never went down well.

A couple of doctors – one male, one female, took a table next to her and were talking animatedly about the arrival of the new MRI scanner and she half-listened, her thoughts interrupted when one of the doctors looked down at his belt. "Bleeped," he said, sounding faintly annoyed.

He got up and crossed to a telephone that was on the wall.

"This is Doctor Cortez," he said, listened to whatever was said and nodded. "I'll be right there."

He returned to his companion. "They need me in the MRI room," he said. "I'll see you at lunch time." He leaned over and kissed the woman on the lips, a long, lingering kiss that made Daisy smile – at least until the reality of the man's name sank in.

"See you at lunch, Harry." The female doctor stayed where she was as the young man headed out of the cafeteria. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a scampering movement as something followed Harry Cortez out of the cafeteria. Sighing, Daisy looked at her watch. 

_9.16am._

9.16am.

After depositing the trunk load of marijuana plants down at the station, Roxy headed for the other side of town, to locate someone who went by the name of M Thomson with an ETD of 10.04am. One of the perks of her 'day job' that she'd found really useful had been the fact that she now had access to all the electoral registers and police databases. It narrowed things down when you were searching for someone by nothing more than a couple of initials and a last name.

She patrolled the street a few times, checking out the risk factors, trying to assess where the 'external influence' was likely to come from. She liked patrolling. Roxy _enjoyed_ walking. It was the one time that she could allow her mind to wander. Daisy had once told her that she was one of the most _focused_ people she had ever known and Roxy supposed that was probably true. 

She liked being focused. It was core to her being. Nothing fazed her – at least not externally, anyway. There had been times when the behaviour of her fellow Reapers had unsettled her greatly – particularly that nasty business with Mason, Daisy and that Ray guy.

Roxy didn't like to linger on thoughts of that situation. She'd covered up for them in the worst way possible. She'd lied. She, an officer of the law…

"Hey, lady, watch where you're walking." A street kid, maybe ten or eleven at the most, glowered at her as she walked into him.

"Watch your mouth, kid."

"Whatever." No, it wasn't a boy. It was a girl. Ratty haired and grubby, dressed as a boy. And feisty, too, looking at her.

"What are you doin' around here?" Roxy's interest was both personal and professional – as a cop, she had a duty to the people of 'her' town. But she always hated to see kids on the street like this.

"That's my business."

"Well, I'm makin' it mine as well. What's your name?"

"Tommy."

Roxy put her hands on her hips and tipped her head to one side, looking at the child shrewdly.

"Kind of a strange name for a girl, ain't it?" The kid glowered again, that particularly special brand of sulky dislike that children of all ages were so good at. Even George was good at it, and she was a young woman rather than a child. "What's your _real_ name?"

"Melissa Thomson."

_Aw, shit._

"Why aren't you in school, Tommy?" Roxy got a quiet, one-shouldered uni-shrug in response. Roxy sighed, inwardly. Like Rube, she wasn't that great around kids and never particularly enjoyed reaping their souls. It wasn't because of their reactions – bizarrely, children seemed to accept their fates with more stoicism than most adults. It was just that she felt it fucked up the balance of the world somehow.

"You hungry?"

"Sure."

"Come on. I'll buy you a hot dog." Roxy figured that there was just enough time. Kid may as well get sent off with a full stomach. It somehow felt like the least she could do.

She glanced at her watch.

_9.25am._

9.25am

"Favourite colour?"

"Red. No, black. No, that's not really a colour. Purple. Yeah, purple. Or is it blue?" Mason pulled a face. "Green."

"Mason, Mason, Mason – you really need to be more _assertive_." George smiled at him. He was getting so confused over a question as simple as what his favourite colour was. He was _definitely _not himself today. Given that where Mason was concerned 'himself' was an incompetent idiot, it could be argued that no, he was perfectly normal. But there was something different about him today.

They had gone – feeling like traitors – to a different restaurant. They'd _planned _to go to Der Waffle Haus, of course, but Rube was still sitting there, still doing his crossword.

"He's _always_ doing that bloody crossword," Mason had grumbled. "I'm sure it's the one he was doing the day he died and he still hasn't finished it." 

So they'd headed to a Denny's a few blocks away and Mason was gleefully filling his face with pancakes and maple syrup whilst George drank more coffee and picked at her oatmeal.

"How about you? What's YOUR favourite colour? Oooh, I know, I know, let me guess. It's pink, isn't it? 'cos you're a girl." He pondered. "Do _all_ girls like pink, or is that just a wotsit? A – you know." He waved his fork around vaguely. Mason wasn't good with words at the best of times.

"Pink's OK in its place. But I like blue."

"You're not a proper girl." Mason grinned at her. "Daisy likes pink."

"Fuck you, Mason."

"Any time."

_Remember your mission, George. Put a smile on his face. Ignore the insult. Smile nicely and…_

"How are the pancakes?"

"Fantastic. Best thing about America if you ask me. NOWHERE makes pancakes like this back in England. Or at least they didn't, you know, back in the eighties when I left."

An opening. George dived in immediately.

"So how long have you actually _been_ over here, Mason?"

"Twenty years, give or take. Blimey, is it really that long?" He seemed surprised at the revelation. "I stayed in England for about fifteen years after I died, then got a transfer over here. Nobody ever said why – and when you get a transfer, you don't question it."

"Have you always been in External Influences?"

"Yeah. I was really busy in the sixties back home. Lots of drug deaths, you know. Accidental overdoses, experimental mixes…that sort of thing. That was a bloody lucrative time period. I scored some _incredible_ stuff off some of 'em." He sounded proud of himself. "Then out of nowhere, it was 'Mason, we need to ship you overseas'. That was how I got here, too. Ship. I got to reap several people who got bitten by a rare spider."

That answered the question that George had long wondered about the answer to. Roxy had said something about Mason having claimed never to have flown before, but she'd not considered alternative methods of trans-Atlantic transportation.

"Did you work for Rube straight off?" Mason shook his head, his mouth too full of food to say anything and George waited patiently for the next instalment in the story. Eventually, Mason swallowed.

"I started out working for this bloke in New York city. Lot of suicides and things in the eighties. Wall Street and everything. Then I got moved here about a year before Roxy joined us."

"Do you like it here?"

A shrug. "It's alright."

"Do you think I'll ever get moved out of this town?"

A sudden cold fear gripped George. If she was transferred out of this town, she'd no longer be able to keep tabs on her family, no longer be able to see what Reggie did, no longer able to see her old house…

_Weird._ _When I was alive, that would have sounded like an ideal thing._

"Dunno." Mason shrugged again and then, he fixed her with what had to be the most earnest look she'd ever seen on his face. "I hope not, Georgie, I really do. You're about the only person who's ever actually _nice_ to me these days."

"What's the deal with you and Rube?"

_There, question asked._

"No deal. He thinks I'm a fuck-up. And I am. I always have been."

Mason set down his fork without finishing his pancakes, an unreadable expression on his face. "Like father, like son, I guess…"

_Oh-ho! A juicy morsel of Mason's mysterious past. _

Mason had only mentioned his father once around George and that had been _way_ back when she'd not long been dead, when Betty had still been a part of the team, when she had thought Mason was kind of endearing for choosing vanilla ice cream, when he had said that his dad had 'shat himself' when the young Mason had asked about 'the D word'.

"Do you miss your family, Mason?"

The question was simple, but double-edged. George had never really thought that she'd obsessed on missing her family, but when you looked at it objectively, that was largely because she _didn't_ miss her family. She missed _being_ with her family – but she was still close to them. Mason was thousands of miles from home. They were all displaced in the way that only being undead could do to you, but Mason was displaced AND a long way away from home.

"Not really."

"Did you ever?"

"Not really."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Can I get you kids anything else?" The waitress had turned up at their table to refill the empty coffee mugs. Mason shook his head and George asked for the check. She couldn't help but notice that Mason poured some of his by-now mostly empty bottle of bourbon into his coffee.

_Maybe Rube was right. Maybe I **should** just accept that Mason was a fuck-up and move past it. But the thought occurred to me that maybe nobody had ever actually bothered to talk to him about it._

_The thought **hadn't** occurred to me that he didn't **want** to talk about it. I'd never once pegged Mason down as being the deep, dark brooding type. There was something so…**open** about the way he was. What you see is what you get. He didn't give a shit what you thought of him, his drug and drink habits or even his personal hygiene issues. On that front we were united._

_Which was kind of fucked up when you thought about it._

_And more than a little scary._

Mason idly scratched his crotch as he drank his laced coffee.

_And maybe not so similar on the personal hygiene front, either._

9.33am

As External Influence deaths went, Daisy had to admit afterwards that this had been a particularly nasty looking one. She had been glad that she'd gotten hold of Harry Cortez and popped his soul in advance, because his death would otherwise have been particularly painful.

His bewildered soul stood next to her now, staring in disbelief at the scene before him. The workmen were trying desperately to prise a trolley jack off the hugely powerful MRI magnet. Behind said trolley jack was the now decidedly flattened corpse of Doctor Henry 'Harry' Cortez, Consultant Radiologist. 

It had been very quick, that was for sure.

Daisy learned, from Harry's soul, that the magnet in an MRI was almost insanely powerful and that metal objects shouldn't be brought anywhere near them. Or at least if a metal object – say, a trolley jack _was_ brought near it, then you shouldn't absently let go of it.

The force of impact had killed Harry instantly.

Right now, one of the workmen was on to the perma-magnet's manufacturer in Japan, trying to find out how to remove the jack.

"They'll have to exert something like two tonnes of pressure to get that trolley jack off there," said Harry's soul, sadly. "Maybe they should just leave me there as a permanent reminder that stupid is as stupid does."

"I like your attitude, Harry," said Daisy, filing her nails absently. "The glass is half full in your little world, isn't it?"

"Can I see my wife one last time before I go…wherever it is I'm going?"

Daisy checked the time. 

"Oh, fine," she said, a little petulantly. "But just a quick call."

Once that tedious little task was out the way and Harry Cortez had disappeared in a dazzle of radiance, Daisy had left the hospital, trying not to notice as she did so a couple of nurses doing their own Reaping. There was some sort of crossover point when 'External Influences' became 'As A Direct End Product Of External Influences' and such deaths generally happened on the operating table, or in the ER. 

She was grateful, yet again, for her assignment with Rube and his team. Despite the odd run-in with The Boss Man, Rube was, for the most part, pretty tolerant of the group and their ways.

Which was probably, all things considered, for the best.

She'd spent a surprisingly pleasant morning in Mason's company. She'd never really had the sort of problem with him that say, Daisy or Roxy or most _definitely_ Rube had. Objectively, he was only nine years older than she was, but she was so much more mature in so many ways.

When she had commented on this, he had presented her with a very simple explanation.

"See, the thing is, Georgie, the way I see it, is that _nobody_ can do anything about turning into an adult. I just decided I didn't like the idea of growing up. Growing up meant responsibility and responsibility wasn't something I ever liked the idea of."

"Didn't you want to – y'know. Get married, have kids, that sort of thing?"

"God, no, really? Me as a dad? You ARE joking, right? I was brought up on tour. Not exactly the most stable of family backgrounds and it didn't give me much of a taste for reproducing myself."

"So you weren't married when you…" George put a finger to her temple and swivelled it round.

"Nope."

"Living with someone?"

"Nope."

"Did you even have a girlfriend"

"Nope. Bloody hell, what is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Why do you suddenly care so much about my life story, George?" A faintly suspicious look came over his face. "Has someone put you up to this?" He brightened. "Daisy, maybe. Daisy wants to know all about me. She's _properly_ interested in me, that's it, isn't it?"

"Uh – no, I was just sort of…curious. I don't really know much about you, Mason, you're really good at keeping yourself to yourself."

"Oh." The disappointment was palpable and there'd been no more little morsels of information. So far, George had learned very little about Mason, despite discovering that she actually liked him far more than she had ever thought. When you sat and talked to him like this – _really _talked to him – there was much less of the hapless fall-guy about him.

"Mason are you OK?" George didn't know why she asked the question, neither was she fully prepared for the response. His eyes turned towards her and he gave her a big, infectious smile. 

"I'm fine, Georgia," he said. "Hadn't you better be getting off to the mall?" 

_Fine._

_The one word in the English language that had more meanings than anything else._ _Mason probably said 'I'm fine' right before that drill bit burrowed into his brain. _

_Actually, he probably said 'I'm fine' right afterwards as well, to be fair._

_I have to admit, it was kind of strange to hear that word come out of a guy's mouth. And in that moment, I wondered whether Mason wasn't, in his own way, as good an actor as Daisy claimed to be an actress. _

_But he was right. The mall beckoned. Lucky me._

_I always used to wonder what happened when you died. Was it true that if you were good, you went to heaven – and if you were bad, you went to hell? My dad always used to say that maybe we were already dead and life was just purgatory._

_If that was the case, then the mall was hell._

_I hated shopping._

"I hate shopping."

"Girl, how can you hate shopping?" Roxy was out of her uniform and casually dressed in a surprisingly feminine dress and heels. Daisy was still to arrive, so she and George were sitting at the coffee shop waiting for her. 

"My mom used to make me try on all kinds of things that I didn't like, want or even need. I like my comfort zone, OK? Jeans, sweaters – combats. These things make me _happy_, Roxy."

Roxy shook her head and sipped at her espresso. "Even I like to shop," she confided, surprising George with the open, frank manner in which she made the revelation. "Don't you dare tell Daisy, though."

"As if." George laughed and made some serious inroads into her choca-mocha-mega latte, or whatever the pretentious drink was called. Whatever it was called, it tasted nice. 

She toyed with the foam on top of the coffee for a time. Roxy seemed distracted and distant, more so than usual and not open to conversation, so George didn't push the issue. She had long ago learned that Roxy wasn't one to confide.

Fortunately, mere minutes later, Daisy breezed up, all chiffon and silk and scarf and perfume. "Hello ladies," she said, dropping down into one of the empty seats. "Are we all ready to shop?" She cast a perfunctory glance over George's jeans-and-sweater combo and then switched her hawk-like scrutiny to Roxy.

"You look nice," she said, almost in disgruntlement.

"Why thank you, Daisy," replied Roxy, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Have you two read your instructions yet?"

"The envelope? Of course I have." 

Both sets of eyes turned to George who shrugged and took hers out of her jacket pocket. It was crumpled and unopened. All the time she'd spent with Mason that morning had meant that it had been pushed to the back of her mind.

"I've been busy," she said in response to their expressions. "And it's not until tonight, right?"

"Open the envelope, Georgia." Daisy rolled her eyes theatrically.

"OK, OK."

_The way their eyes devoured that envelope, I could have been opening the Best Actress Oscar envelope._

_Why not pander to their whims?_

"And the award for the Best Actress goes to…Georgia Lass!"

"As if." Daisy laughed her pretty, spiteful little laugh. "Who are you, then, Georgia?"

"You will attend the gathering as Cathy Burkett, personal assistant to the up-and-coming author Janet Pearson…"

"That's me," Roxy interjected and Daisy looked decidedly miffed. George continued.

"…who is attending the masquerade ball at the Grosvenor House."

A silence fell. George turned the paper over. "That's it," she said. "That's it. Just that, and the post-it."

_Come in, E Chalmers, your time is up._

Roxy nodded. "Mine was that brief, too. How 'bout yours, Daisy?"

"Angela Wilson. Journalist." Daisy flicked her hair back over her shoulder. 

"Didn't Rube say that we needed to digest what was in here?" George was puzzled. One sentence didn't seem to be much to digest. "How are we supposed to know how to act, what to do, what to be?"

"We act, Georgia." Daisy sighed. "We improvise. We're here to create our personas and to be them for the rest of the day."

"I can't do that!" George was vehement. Roxy studied her.

"You've been doin' it since the day you died. Mildred Hagen, remember?"

"So we're completely at liberty to create whoever we fancy? Nobody's going to know any different?" This, George reasoned, could actually be _fun_. An opportunity to throw off all the normal protocols and just pretend to be someone else.

"Looks that way." Daisy looked at Roxy who looked as disinterested as she ever did. "Authors are often quite gregarious people, Roxy, do you think you can carry off 'gregarious' and 'effervescent'?" She reached a hand out for Roxy's envelope, but the other woman snatched it back.

"I'll carry your ass off on a stretcher if you try to take my envelope," she said, in a neutral tone, with a smile on her face. "_Angela_."

_So there we were. Cathy, Janet and Angela on a trip around the shopping mall. Daisy got into character right from the start and even Roxy seemed to start enjoying herself. But I was anxious. Who was Cathy Burkett? What did she like?_

_And gradually, like the outfits we started buying, Cathy took shape. And as we shopped, we even managed a rare bit of girl-bonding. Much as I had to admit it, I was starting to relax and enjoy myself._

_Maybe this shopping thing **could** be fun after all._

_2:08pm_

"You're late."

Mason shrugged. "By five minutes. Big, fat hairy deal, Rube. I was in the shower. Like you said."

Indeed, Mason looked noticeably cleaner, although he had a sort of inherent griminess about him that Rube suspected no amount of scrubbing, or possibly Lysol would ever totally eliminate. But yes, he was distinctly more polished than he had been that morning.

"Sit down." Rube indicated the seat opposite, which Mason slid into. "What do you want to eat?"

"You're buying me _lunch_?" Mason's smile was positively beaming as he scanned the menu and ordered his food. "Cheers, Rube. Appreciate it."

"How did your reap go this morning? Any problems?"

"None whatsoever." Mason smirked slightly. "All went off without a hitch." _Apart from the fact that when I wasn't paying attention, I actually fell down an actual manhole after some complete ARSEHOLE left the actual manhole cover off. Actually._

Some things didn't need to be reported.

"Good. Have you looked at your envelope for tonight?"

"Well done, Mason, oh, don't mention it Rube, oh you didn't, so that's alright. Yeah, I've looked at it." Mason swung his legs round so he was lounging comfortably in the booth.

"And are you OK with it?"

"I'm fine."

"Think you can do it?" Rube's look was positively piercing and the young man felt decidedly uncomfortable at the expression. "Think you can do it without your usual tendency to screw up?"

Food was delivered at this moment which saved Mason from having to reply immediately. As he ripped into the plate of food with just as much ravenous hunger as he'd shown only a few hours previously when he'd eaten breakfast, Rube considered him thoughtfully.

"How many years is it you've been one of us now, Mason?" 

"Thirty nine," came the immediate reply, through a mouthful of steak.

"And have you found the answers yet?"

Mason's head came up and he studied Rube with great puzzlement evident on his face. The expression said that he had no idea what the older man was talking about, although the words that came out of his mouth were difficult to understand due to the quantity of food that he'd shovelled in there.

"Wanna run that by me again? Preferably without the sour cream shower?" Rube wiped at imaginary specks of food on his shirt. 

"I said, why is everything everyone's saying to me a question today? I feel like I'm on 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire' or something. Well, here's news. I'm not looking for any answers. I'm not George, I'm not Roxy – hell, I'm not _you_, Rube." He set down his cutlery and pushed the half-eaten plate of dinner away. "I just lost my appetite."

Rube shrugged his indifference to this statement and the two men sat in sullen, frosty silence for several minutes.

"You need a suit," said Rube, eventually. "Let's go get you a suit." Rube raised a hand to signal that he wanted the check bringing over.

"Why couldn't I go to the mall with the girls?"

"I have my reasons." Rube examined the bill and dropped money onto the table. "Let's move it, Mason. I want to talk to you on the way."

"To me, or at me?" Mason's eyes narrowed suspiciously and Rube couldn't help but chuckle lightly.

The two reapers flashed a rare smile of camaraderie. "Whichever one will make you listen, kid," he said and clapped a hand on Mason's shoulder. "Whichever one will make you listen."

8.00pm

"Georgia, will you stop already? You look beautiful." Daisy carefully removed the lock of hair that George had been chewing 

"I'm not Georgia, I'm Cathy." George was fidgeting with the dress that had been picked out by Daisy for her. She'd never felt all that comfortable in dresses, but this was beyond the pale. Slender, full length and form fitting, it was a cool, ice blue colour that accentuated her blonde good looks. Roxy, by contrast, was wearing a fiery little red number that left no doubt that she was very, very definitely _female_.

And Daisy – the one person that George had figured would go all out for the prettiest frock she could buy, was wearing a dress suit: a simple, well-cut, navy pinstripe pinafore with a short, tailored matching jacket that pinched in at her waist. 

"I'm a journalist. It looks more _professional_."

She had really gotten into this 'role' thing. Roxy was relaxed and clearly enjoying the admiring looks she was getting as she held conversations with person after person, displaying no sign of the reticence and bad temperedness that so normally characterised her.

"Where's Rube and Mason? Shouldn't they be here by now?"

"I can't wait to see Rube in a suit. He'll look just _wonderful_, I know he will."

"Excuse me, ladies, do either of you know where I can put my coat?" The young man who had stopped them was tall, handsome and very debonair. Daisy went immediately into flirt mode, George immediately blushed and looked around for rescue.

"Just over there, handsome, and what's _your_ name?"

"Eddie Chalmers," he replied with a dazzling smile. "Son of the guest of honour."

_Bingo._

"Well, Eddie Chalmers, I'm Angela. Angela Wilson. Literary correspondent for the new Arts paper, 'The Wire'…" And Daisy was off, chattering nineteen to the dozen in a way that George had never been able to master.

Glancing at the post-it note that she'd brought in with her, she established that it was a good two and a half hours before young Mr. Chalmers here would meet his untimely demise, and she'd not yet seen anything that indicated what would cause that. Avoiding the conversation, she turned to look around the room.

Her eyes passed over Rube and Mason several times before they finally settled and her brain accepted what she was seeing. Mason caught her eye and winked his approval at her outfit, nudging Rube in the ribs so that the older man did the same.

The pair of them were dressed in matching tuxedos and looked, quite frankly, out of this world.

Leaving Daisy to her flirtations, George made her way across to join them.

"Miss Burkett," said Rube, with a gentle incline of his head. "May I introduce Viscount Andrew Dunmore?"

Mason was gazing eagerly around the room when Rube said this and came back to attention when he received a smart tap around the back of the head.

"What?"

"Viscount Dunmore, this is Cathy Burkett. Personal assistant to the author Janet Pearson, who I think you'll see is just walking over there…" Rube pointed out Roxy who winked at him and continued 'working the room'.

"Who? Oh, yes. Yes." Mason took George's hand and kissed the knuckles. "_Enchanté, mademoiselle, _I'm sure."

"You're not French, you're English."

"That's a relief." Mason's face relaxed and he nudged George in the ribs. "What _is_ a Viscount anyway? I always thought it was a sort of biscuit."

"For the love of…Peanut, did you find your Reap yet?" George nodded, but she couldn't take her eyes off of 'Viscount Dunmore'. There was something so messed up about Mason in a tuxedo. "Look after his Viscount-ness for me while I go to the buffet, would you?"

"Rube, I…"

He'd already gone. George sighed and turned her attention back to Mason, who had resumed his admiring gaze around the room. He was barely short of dollar signs shining in his eyes. He was, she was pretty sure he was valuing the place for items he could steal and sell later.

"You look great, George," Mason said, once his attention returned to her. "Blue's definitely your colour. Definitely." 

"Thank you, your Viscount-ship," replied George with a wicked grin. "And nobility definitely suits you."

"Rube's having a laugh at my expense, I suspect," he said, dropping his voice conspiratorially. "Any ideas on what this mass death is going to be? We've got one each, so, five deaths, all within a few moments of each other."

"No idea at all. I've been looking for signs, but can't find anything that looks even slightly suspicious. Maybe the chandelier drops on their heads _a'la_ The Phantom of the Opera." George indicated upwards and Mason's eyes followed her gaze to the massive crystal chandelier that dominated the room.

"Bloody hell, that's big," he observed, artlessly. "There's a couple of bulbs out in it, though. Sloppy, I call it."

He wandered around for a few moments, staring upwards at the chandelier. "I reckon that'd kill more than five people," he observed. Then he looked at George, clearly thinking about something. "Perhaps," he said, affecting a faintly humorous posh voice, "you might like to accompany me outside for a breath of fresh air. The Viscount likes your company."

"Sure, Mason." George rolled her eyes at him and grinned. This rare moment of serious Mason wouldn't last long, she knew it – so may as well milk it for what it was worth.

"C'mere." He put out his hand for hers and hesitating only slightly, she took it. They walked together, out onto the balcony and into the barmy night. 

As they walked, he talked. 

"When I died," he said, in a calm, controlled – and above everything else _sober_ – voice, "I hadn't seen my mum or dad for ten years. Once I was big enough and ugly enough to take care of myself, that was it. Mind, dad left when I was about ten anyway so THAT wasn't an issue. But mum gave me some dosh and packed me off to live with my mate Bob. Bob was great. He was like a big brother to me. Twenty four when he died. He had a headache and took one too many aspirin. All those years of class A drugs, and he was killed by aspirin. He wasn't related to me, but he was all the family I had. Until I died."

Mason shook his head incredulously. "There's no justice."

Silence fell for a while.

"I was nineteen at the time. I found him. That was the day I decided that there was no problem on this earth that couldn't be solved by getting wasted. Since then, I've largely looked at life through the bottom of a whisky bottle."

George didn't say anything. This was Mason's moment.

"So that's when I became who I am." He leaned on the railing and stared out over the garden. "Mason, who didn't care less about anything. Mason who didn't need to get a job. Mason, who didn't care how he came by his rent money. Me, basically." He spread his hands out and then rested them lightly on his chest. "I've been him for so long now, I can't remember how to be anybody else. And so yes, George, in answer to your question this morning, I miss my family. But I have you guys, right?"

And then Mason laughed, shook himself off and put an arm lightly around George's shoulder.

"Come on, Georgie, let's go do what we're best at."

"Taking people's souls?"

"Shame on you, darlin'. No, I mean drinking the bar dry and cleaning out the buffet. And, I suppose, taking people's souls. If we must."

_And that was who Mason was. It was almost painfully simple, really. Which **is** who Mason was. Painfully simple, I mean. _

_In a GOOD way, though. _

_No, really._

_And as I looked around at my post-life family all strolling around pretending to be someone that they were not, I realised, for the first time, just how important being yourself actually was. Weird how it was so difficult. _

_We reaped five members of the Chalmers family that night. Turned out to be a poison suicide pact. The father, three daughters and Eddie Junior. Some sort of crazy ploy to encourage the book to sell better._

_It worked, of course. The book was in the bestseller list for months._

_Shame it was such a load of crap._

_But the loyalty of those children to their father was almost frightening. And so was the realisation that this merry band of weirdoes who made up my after-life family were just as precious to me as my living family had ever been._

_Maybe more so._

Time passed, which was fairly reasonable of it. Morning came.

"Job well done," Rube said, looking around at his team. "Thank you all. And may I say, Roxy, you looked particularly stunning?"

"You _may_ say so, Rube." Roxy practically glowed with the compliment.

"Where's Mason?"

"Nursing a hangover I expect," said Daisy, looking up from filing her nails. "Last I saw of him, he was trying to embalm himself again. Honestly, that man has such an unbelievable capacity for alcohol."

"Give the guy a break - it was his death-day yesterday. He was feeling sorry for himself," said George without thinking. The other two women exchanged sharp glances.

"He never mentioned it to me," said Daisy sounding ever so faintly put-out. Roxy shrugged as well when George turned a querying eye on her. The fact that she, George, had known something the others hadn't made her feel particularly important.

The prodigal returned, of course, stumbling into the restaurant with eyes that looked like he'd taken them out and put them in a pickle jar overnight.

"My mouth," he announced, by way of greeting, "tastes like the bottom of a budgerigar's cage."

Some light squabbling broke out between Roxy and Mason over something completely insignificant. George watched the show for a while, amused. Daisy continued to file her nails and tut disapprovingly at the antics and Rube...

Rube just did his crossword, ignoring the lot of them.

_They were **all** pretty screwed up when it came right down to it. But do you know what? Dysfunctional family they may have been – but they were **my** family._

_And I wouldn't have it any other way._

**The End.**


End file.
